


silence

by AslansCompass



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Character Study, Depression, Gen, Post 6x05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 02:52:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10777983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AslansCompass/pseuds/AslansCompass
Summary: They left her alone, with only the voices in her head to keep her company, only the ticking clock to fill the time, only empty air and rough wool to touch. Sister Mary Cynthia waits in Lynchmore.





	silence

It's strangely familiar, and that frightens her more than anything. The strict schedule, the regular rounds, even the required conversations: Lynchmere shares that much with the Mother House. Cries and screams from elsewhere in the wards replace the litany of hours. The uncertain rhythm of prayer and midwifery forbidden, stretching the once-swift passage between breakfast and noon, tea and supper, to an endless waiting. Even the ordinance of confession is no release, a demand for answers without patience.

The nurses let her keep her few possessions, after confirming that nothing is hidden in the binding or covers.

> _When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee._

It _was_ water, waves crashing down like the bombs that fell on St. Paul's, leaving dust and ash in the wake.  But fire?  Fire would be a relief. Fire would be  _something,_ a reminder of life. Not this emptiness, this cold.  She would be frightened, but there's not enough of her left to even say that much.

> “He said not 'Thou shalt not be tempested, thou shalt not be travailed, thou shalt not be diseased'; but he said, 'Thou shalt not be overcome.”

In her head she can hear Sister Julian, recalling the words of her namesake...a section she cannot bear to read from the book of hours. ~~ _All shall be well...._~~ No, not that. Anything but that. 

And then sent away, like a child sneaking too many sweets. Sister Ursula had not even let her say goodbye.  But thinking of Sister Ursula only worsens the ache in her chest, rage like coals hidden in the sand. She should not hate her sisters, no matter what they did or failed to do.   

* * *

 

"What happened leading up to the event?" the psychiatrist asks.

She's told the story so many times; to Nurse Crane, the police, Sister Julienne...  Cynthia closes her eyes.  

"I can't help you if you don't tell me what happened."

* * *

Bed. Wall. The book, heavy in her hand.  The words would mean nothing to her, even if she had the will to read.  

"Sister Mary Cynthia?"

Another nurse? But the meal wasn't due for hours. She lifts her head, turning to the window.  

Sister Monica Joan? As if pulled by a magnet, she stands, walks to the door. Presses her hand against the window, like a child at the sweets shop. Sister Monica Joan mirrors her action, trying to reach out, but the glass is cold and firm.

She would cry, if she had tears left.  She cannot hear, but she sees the nun's face, wet and wrinkled with grief, and wonders why they came. (They, for she sees Fred in the background without really recognizing him at all.)

She has no questions, no curiosity as to why they came or how they found her.

No hope, for that would imply she had some goal in mind.

No relief, for what can they do against the system, the nurses and doctors--even Sister Ursula--who sent her here?

Only, deep down, a kernel of shame, that she is so low as to be locked away, as not even Sister Monica Joan, for all her age and instability, is.  Locked away, not by age or injury, but by simple shock.

* * *

 

"I don't know how to do it. I don't know how to put things right." 

"Putting things right is what we do. Your psychiatrist would like to try another course of treatment."

"What treatment?"

"It's called electroconvulsive therapy."

"I don't want it.  I'll be knocked out and when I open my eyes again, things will have been done to me without me knowing." She hadn't lied to the nurses; she knew some of it, and she knew that it--that he hadn't-- _that_ hadn't happened, at least. But the rest of it--

"We believe it would be the most suitable treatment for you."

"You don't know that, and you can't know that, because you don't know me. " They say Sister, Sister, as if there's no difference between Cynthia and Winifred, between Julienne and Monica Joan. One of a category, slotted and filed. "You can't see what I see when I close my eyes." And they never ask. 

* * *

_Maybe it would have helped if she'd known of Sister Julienne's rebuffed visit. Maybe, if she'd known someone had tried, it would have given her some light in the dimness.  Or maybe it would have meant nothing to her at all._

_So she submitted to the treatment, and in between waking and sleeping, between meals and after medications, she sat and stared at the walls and wished it was over._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> That last episode was painful. I'd forgotten that Cynthia's storyline was coming back until halfway through the episode, and Sister Monica Joan's reaction just made it that much worse.


End file.
